


Five Times Kingsley Shacklebolt Looked at Himself in the Mirror (And One Time He Didn't)

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: 5 Things, Adolescent Sexuality, Drabble Sequence, Drama, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mirrors, Race, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-13
Updated: 2010-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:57:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>See overlong title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Kingsley Shacklebolt Looked at Himself in the Mirror (And One Time He Didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo 2010. Kink: _Mirrors_

1.

In his childhood, his parents make his clothes; his mother cuts, his father sews. In the grey London winters, Kingsley wears scarlet and emerald and sapphire. In the summer, it's confections of spun-sugar pink and mint green and lemon-drop yellow.

At age eleven, Kingsley tries on his first set of store-bought robes: his Hogwarts uniform.

He peers at the stranger in the mirror, this tall boy all in sombre black, and does not recognise him.

"...hello?" he says cautiously, and then when there is no reply from behind the ordinary glass, he sheepishly pretends he'd only been practicing his introductions.

  
2.

On game days, he isn't Kingsley. He's a Chaser. The team moves as one, a swarm of bees in their yellow and black house uniforms.

It's only a game, his mother says, but it isn't. It's the endlessly-practised formations, and the cheering in the stands, and being part of something bigger than himself. Win or lose, they're a team.

Afterwards, however, the uniforms come off. In the showers, before the mirrors steam up, he sometimes catches a glimpse of his reflection in the middle of the line of pink-pale bodies—and there he is, the odd one out as always.

  
3.

He finds it in a storeroom in his fourth year. At first he takes it for a portrait, but when he pulls the dusty sheet off, his own face stares back at him.

A figure appears behind him in the mirror, and he spins around, but there's no one there. Then he reads the backwards inscription on the frame. Ah. He is not completely surprised when the figure—who bears a resemblance to the Arrows' Dexter Davis—kisses the Kingsley in the mirror.

His face warms, and he quickly puts the sheet back.

"Keep it under your hat, all right?"

  
4.

Summer at home means privacy, a locking charm on his bedroom door, and a fitness magazine at hand. Kingsley unbuttons his robes on a quiet afternoon and settles in for a long, leisurely, ten-minute wank.

He strokes himself languidly. The men in the pictures obligingly flex. His hand gradually speeds up, and his lips part dumbly as his eyelids slowly flutter shut.

"Mmm..."

That's when he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror—and promptly wilts in utter embarrassment.

Merlin's balls, how was anyone ever going to have sex with him without laughing if _ that's_ the face he pulls?

  
5.

Caius's bathroom is cold and tiny and messy, like the rest of his flat, but after six months in the barracks, any private residence feels like a palace.

Kingsley washes up in the basin, feeling sweat-sticky and dirty all over, but in a good way. He splashes cold water on his flushed face and then glances back at the bed where Caius lies sprawled and snoring before touching the sore, throbbing bite-mark on his collarbone.

He grins, and his reflection beams smugly back at him, cocksure and enlightened where only half an hour earlier, a knock-kneed virgin stood.

Hello, there.

  
+1.

Moody doesn't like to be watched. It isn't shyness or shame but paranoia. Staring at Moody winds him up, and not in a way that's conducive to sex.

So Kingsley's learned to be tricky—the dressing mirror in his room angled just so.

He kisses with his eyes half-open now, stealing glances at a broad, naked back. A round bicep. The jagged topography of a long curse-scar.

Every hard-won imperfection. Every inch. He has to see, has to—but always, he gives in, his eyes squeezing shut tightly when he comes.

Then he has to start looking all over again.


End file.
